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Grey Day

I gazed out of the bedroom window but from the angle I lay in bed all I could see was grey. Not clouds, although that’s what it was, but just a complete fusion of depressing grey. A sheet of grey filled the space that was my window... another boring grey day.

Wide awake but not ready to get up I was warm snuggled under the duvet cover, yet when I moved my feet, I could tell they were cold. I often woke up with cold feet but they seemed at odds with the rest of my snuggly warm body. I turned from the window and decided to try and drop back off. I felt cosy, except for my feet, and hugged the duvet tighter. I closed my eyes and hoped that this action alone would bring the desired slumber... alas no.

Shuffling around trying to get the most comfortable position wasn’t helping and the duvet had come out at the foot of the bed... thus explaining my cold feet. I curled into the foetus position and rested for a few seconds but it wasn’t as comfortable as I’d been led to believe such a position offered - after all, don’t the unborn rest in such a fluid embrace?

Still with my eyes closed, I shuffled around to gain a better situation but all evaded such a search. When I opened my eyes again I was facing the window and that same cold, grey scene hadn’t changed. I sighed... grey was definitely my colour. I suppose this was a slight improvement because only a few months earlier everything had been black and pointless.

I wondered what the time was. Usually, if the weather was harsh, the heating came on at seven. With my cold right foot I furtively reached out to the nearby radiator and felt it was just warming up so it was just after seven.

However, although I was now wide awake I didn’t want to get up. I thought about turning on the TV, I could read for a bit, I could... actually I could get up and have some breakfast. That was quite appealing because, if I dropped off, then no doubt I’d sleep heavily and wake up too late to eat before I had to rush showering, dressing and getting ready for school in general. I hated these grey mornings. They didn’t inspire anything except to do nothing.

However, taking the bull by the horns (or simply because there was nothing better to do) I rolled out of bed and looked out the window. The threat of further rain hung in the air and judging by the large pools that had gathered in various parts of the garden, showers had been persistent throughout the night. I hadn’t heard a thing. On the desk were last night’s homework and the half-drunk can of Coke. I finished that in two gulps. Yuk, I hate room temperature Coke.

The full-length mirror showed I was just as grey as the morning, my baggy grey sleep shorts and even baggier t-shirt made me look like a bedraggled bin-bag. My inflated groin also indicated that my night time protection had served its purpose and it would probably be beneficial to get to the bathroom sooner than later to avoid the morning family rush.

I was first so happily locked the bathroom door to deter any voices from my family begging to come in ‘for just a minute’. With my shorts and t-shirt removed I stood for a moment taking in the view of my plastic pants and soaked nappy. This was a sight that had been greeting me for the past six or so months and although I was used to it... it still made me shrug at the state I was in. The shiny white plastic was tight and smooth where the nappy underneath had expanded, so it looked like I no longer had any male attributes, just a sleek, glossy pouch front and back.


When I’d started wetting the bed mum was quick to advise this simple precaution and though an unhappy fourteen year-old (I’m fifteen now) protested, eventually I did see the obvious benefit. Now six months on, I dread to think what state my bed, bedding and my mental capacity would be like had I not taken notice of her guidance.

My elder sister thought it was cute that I wear a nappy to bed. For some reason she thinks that seeing a lad my age wearing a nappy is a ‘joy to behold’ (her words) and even suggested to mum that she puts my two younger brothers back into nightly protection... for no other reason than she thinks it looks so sweet.

She isn’t awful or sneering about it, she just thinks it suits me (shrug). Perhaps she is sneering at me? My two younger brothers bridled at the jokey suggestion from our sister and think it shameful, and reflects badly on them, that they have an older brother who still wets himself, albeit, in the privacy of his slumber. Because of the ‘shame’ they hadn’t told anyone and shun me as much as they dare in front of mum and dad, who on the whole are as supportive as they can be.

They’ve told my brothers and sister that no one was to discuss, joke or say anything about my ‘predicament’ on pain of some, as yet unspecified, punishment. It is hard to see what punishment they could inflict on Carol my sister, she’s eighteen and not about to take crap from anyone least of all from anyone who couldn’t take a joke. However, as I say, she was OK with it.

My two younger brothers, eight year-old Simon and ten year-old Keith had both been grounded for saying something they shouldn’t and both resented me as a result. In the end I asked mum and dad not to be hard on them as “... I could take a joke.”

Anyway, as I peeled down the plastic and stepped out of the soft warm vinyl the back of the nappy sagged, which I don’t know if you know, but is a strange sensation. That moment when something held tight up against your body suddenly lets in some fresh air... it’s quite a ’shock’. Although I’m quite used to it now that little bit of movement has a strange effect on me. I always seem to let out a little ‘groan’ and a shiver runs through my body. It’s like a little sexual thrill. Well, perhaps not sexual... but that ‘groan’ is not one of displeasure that’s for certain.

I don’t hang around too long because I know the bathroom is prime territory that time of a morning. So, I cast off the wet material and throw it in the ‘smelly bin’, as Keith has christened it, and quickly get myself under the shower. Almost as soon as I turn on the taps there’s a knock on the door and an urgent juvenile demand, which I identified as Simon, telling me to ‘hurry up’.

I know I’ve only got a couple of minutes before the knocks and shouts get more insistent (I’ve done it myself if I’m late) but I concentrate the soap and water mainly around my hairless crotch. This was something mum advised very early on. She told me that my pubic hair would retain the smell of urine and would be a breeding ground for germs and such like. The idea of permanently smelling of piss actually scared me into shaving the area and I have kept it smooth and clear ever since. It certainly makes putting the various creams and powder on easier and avoids clumps.

Anyway, I was under a time scale so before anyone got a chance to complain I finished, wrapped a towel around my waist and returned to my grey bedroom. I heard Carol sneak in ahead of Simon much to his angry annoyance.


I don’t have any wetting problems during the day, it’s only when I’m unconscious that the problem presents itself. So, I can dress for school pretty much as normal, although mum did buy some teenage pull-ups ‘just in case’ which I have worn a couple of times but that’s because I fancied doing so.

That’s the other thing. Now I have to wear a nappy at night I’m not filled with resentment because the powers that be (doctors and the internet) have said it will stop when it stops. For some that won’t be much of an answer but for me that about sums up my attitude to life... what happens - happens.

However, I didn’t get to this point easily though mum and dad are pretty persuasive in their logical argument and made me see the futility of getting in a state over a simple and useful piece of material. I remember on that first occasion after I’d left the bed that morning in a very soaked state the anger and embarrassment when mum put me into the protection for the very first time.

She was all calm and explained every aspect of what she was doing and why. Of course, I was fourteen at the time, hated the process and fought desperately to try and block out what was happening. However, mum insisted that I took notice, as she declared that if my problem lasted any length of time, I’d have to do all this myself, and I needed to know the positives and pitfalls of the situation.

I didn’t know there was so much in the preparation and execution of simply putting on a nappy. Although she made it look easy, when I tried the result was pretty disastrous.


Perhaps I should tell you a little more about my situation.

Six months ago on my way home from school I witnessed my best friend Jamie being knocked down and killed by a maniac driving dangerously. He just wasn’t stopping for anyone or anything and drove past the school at speed. Frightened kids were leaping out of the way but Jamie was on the crossing when he was hit. I was two feet away from him but the driver missed me though the impact on my best friend was fatal. He was dragged along under the car for several yards before it only stopped as it hit a tree. My friend was dead at the scene – my body’s reaction to the event? My pants involuntarily filled by witnessing such horrifying carnage.

Counselling hasn’t helped at all. I still dream about that incident and have done repeatedly for the past six months. Once every two weeks I see a school psychiatrist, as do a couple of other key witnesses, but so far the dreams and horror are still there and I just can’t seem to block it out, especially when I’m asleep.

Unfortunately, as I sleep, I’m so traumatised by the dream of that event... that same scared bodily reaction repeats in my nappy time after time. Dragging myself awake at these moment has proved impossible. You’d think that my mind would insist that I get away from the horror but no - like that guy from Greek myth that is destined to push a boulder continually up a hill only for it to roll down again... that’s me... no escape.

I assume that’s why my parents and sister are pretty understanding. Although they hoped I’d be over the worst by now, they know there’s a reason behind these nocturnal incidents. However, the younger members of the family just find the constant aroma of pee emanating from my bedroom, and of course me being older, too much to understand. They hate to see my nappies out on the washing line as they’re sure people will think they’re for them and they object even when my plastic pants are drying in the bathroom. No doubt at their age I was a little twat as well.

The other thing is... it’s not always that dream that sees me wetting the bed... there are other things, which really confuses me. Sometimes I haven’t dreamt at all... or at least have no recollection but still my nappy is soaked.

“You’ve been traumatised,” my parents say compassionately. “It will take time to adjust but don’t worry... you will and you’ll be able to put this entire thing behind you.”

I’m not sure it will. Part of me thinks that I’m wetting the bed as punishment for my friend being killed and I escaped unharmed. What is it they call it - Karma or something similar?  Whatever it is I feel guilty for being alive and a wet nappy is my due.


After the accident (though it was no accident) I could hardly speak to anyone. I shook and cried constantly and tried to keep the world away by locking myself in my bedroom. Jamie’s cruel and dramatic death was all around me and I couldn’t cope. I didn’t understand how I was ‘saved’ and every time I closed my eyes I heard that awful thud, the shrieks of those who witnessed it and in my mind saw a repeat of the event. Each time, as I looked along the trail of blood and flesh, I was left wondering - why him and not me?

This was where the psychiatrist came in. The school and, well, just about everybody, said I needed to see one. I didn’t want to but the pressure won out. We talked and talked. He wrote stuff down and listened and if another twat ever says “...and how did that make you feel?” I swear I’ll kill the bastard.

I was angry (and to a certain extent still am) at the world.

Though it’s difficult being angry at your own family who are trying to do their best, but, you know that grey cloud I mentioned earlier? Well that surrounds me all the time and even when I try to be upbeat, positive (and all the other stuff the psychiatrist as asked me to be) I feel that cloud raining down. I suppose (and I’m thinking aloud here), that grey cloud is just an extension of my wet nappy.


When the bedwetting started I was horrified, a lad my age having such a childish problem, but my parents had been quick to act. They knew, or whatever sixth-sense parents have, that it was because of the trauma of the event. Mum efficiently gathered together nappies, plastic pants and creams and stuff so despite my initial denial and tantrum, I eventually saw the reasoning. I think that was down to dad’s firm words more than my own rationalising. They weren’t taking “No” for an answer.

However, since I’ve gotten used to wearing thick protection at night, and yes I realise I need it, I’ve become less worried because of the security that the thick fluffy material has to offer. The sleek plastic pants keep everything in place and less floppy... so wearing a nappy isn’t now a problem. If anything, it’s made me calmer, a lot less annoying, angry or argumentative at home and school... though I rarely wear a nappy to school.

The reason for this is... a few days ago I had a type of ‘revelation’. I got it into my head that this is Jamie’s way of trying to spare me blame. I mean I still carry ‘survivor’s guilt’ (as the psychiatrist called it) but my friend said (in my head at least) “Look, I know you feel terrible about what’s happened, and even though it wasn’t your fault, you feel responsible in some way. So, I know you need to feel bad about something so, from now on, you’re going to wet the bed... and that can be your penance.”

I know this inner style analysis is stupid but it made me feel better and, I guess, and this is the main thing, I could actually imagine my best mate coming up with such a crappy and humiliating penalty. Jamie and I were close and despite being the best of friends constantly played jokes on each other... it was our way. Having the other embarrassed was no reason not to be the best of friends.

However, as I said earlier, when I release those morning plastic pants and my soaked nappy droops... for a split second a strange shiver runs through my body. That’s him saying, “...well there’s no reason not to get ‘something’ out of it.”

Although sometimes that grey cloud hangs menacingly above my head now I don’t feel it will overwhelm me; those dark, self-harming, thoughts that nearly took control have, if not banished, at least allowed a stray ray of understanding to break through.

There had been times at the beginning when I wondered what the point of it all was. The randomness of life (and death) had scared me, the bedwetting just added to my shameful lack of control of even my body. Early on I’d even written a ‘farewell’ note to the family... it’s still in my exercise book... but...

Despite all that anger mum and dad had taken matters on board and sorted one problem out by simply making me wear a piece of material at night. A simple and effective containment, I still wet but it affected no one else... they’d given me back some control. Now I’ve determined that Jamie loves a wind-up I can appreciate it on a different level.

Jamie was a cheeky friend and I miss him; his humour, daftness and love of a prank lingers in the fact I have to wear a nappy. So now, for the moment, whether I want to or not... I’m pissing my nappy in memory... not on the memory of my best mate... nutty eh?

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